


Of Aching Heads and Reticence

by voxanonymi (spasmodicIntrigue)



Series: Technicalities of Truly Existing [2]
Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: (...sort of), (sort of), Character Study, Father-Son Relationship, Fever, Fluff, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, Kingdom Hearts III Spoilers, Light Angst, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2020-01-16 16:08:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18524983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spasmodicIntrigue/pseuds/voxanonymi
Summary: Ienzo's voice, when he spoke, was scratchy and congested, and felt much the same. Like his vocal chords were frayed. Like trying to play Demyx’s sitar with a cello bow.Even switched his gaze from the screen to Ienzo’s face. “You look terrible.”“Thank you,” Ienzo said. “Now, if you’re done pointing out the obvious…”Ienzo's work ethic will always win out over his sense of self-preservation. Even has never been the kind to worry, but he is not, to his dismay, immune to fits of sentimentality.





	Of Aching Heads and Reticence

**Author's Note:**

> Ah, yes. Here we are again. Sooner than anticipated. I guess... my hand slipped?
> 
> If you've already read my fic [Delusions of Being](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18157757/chapters/42939323) and are here for more Ienzo, then welcome back! If you haven't, then hello! Welcome! It's not necessary to read DoB in order to understand this fic, but there are a few minor, probably inconsequential details which might make more sense if you have. I mean, obviously my _recommendation_ would be to read DoB before this, wink wink, but don't feel obligated. Though, if you read this first, and like it, and want more... well. Wink wink.
> 
> Either way, I hope you enjoy this! I sure enjoyed writing it :D

Ienzo woke with a headache and a sore throat, and could not have been less pleased about it. He had things to _do_ , for goodness’ sake.

Well, it didn’t have to be the end of the world. A headache and a sore throat didn’t necessarily bode for anything more severe than… a headache and a sore throat. It could just be a one-day ailment, and tomorrow he’d be back to normal.

(But that’s never how this goes, is it?)

He pulled himself out of bed to find that he’d left his window open. Again. For someone who considered himself intelligent, he was sort of an idiot sometimes.

Nothing for it but to ignore the symptoms as best he could and get on with his day.

The kitchen was empty when he slouched in to pour himself a double-strength coffee and gulp down some painkillers. Why, yes, swallowing _did_ hurt, but it was the fastest step toward _relieving_ the pain.

He was so tired. He’d only just gotten out of bed and yet every bone, nerve-ending, and muscle-fibre in his body was begging him to go back to sleep. It was tempting to give in, but he couldn’t afford a day off. He’d promised to help Master Ansem with a new project next week, so he needed to finish the new operating system before then, and he was behind schedule as it was.

When he got to the old lab, Even was at one of the workbenches, staring into a beaker of clear, fizzing liquid with a thoroughly dissatisfied expression on his face. Ienzo wasn’t sure he wanted to know. He couldn’t muster up the energy to be curious. He went straight to the computer and hit the power button, cradling his coffee in both hands as he slumped into his chair.

Halfway through the boot sequence, the computer proudly presented him with a glaring error screen. Right. He’d almost forgotten about that. Something he’d changed last night had caused a major glitch that prevented the whole system from initialising unless he manually entered the command codes. It had been getting late when it happened, and his head was starting to hurt, so he figured… he’d sort it out in the morning…

Well, it was morning, and the headache hadn’t gone away. It already felt worse for the thought of having to, once he got into the stupid thing, _somehow_ locate the source of the error. He’d already undone the last change he made, so he was at a loss as to what was causing the problem. It would probably be best to reload the whole thing from his last backup… but his last backup had been _days_ ago, and that would put him even further off schedule.

Oh, hubris. How arrogant of him to think he could get away with only the occasional backup. After this was sorted, he’d be sure to back up his work twice daily—for this project, and every subsequent project from now on. Because this? This just wasn’t worth the headache.

“Still having problems, I see.”

Ienzo jumped at Even’s shrill voice by his shoulder. A splash of coffee leaped out of his cup and landed treacherously on his sleeve. His _white_ sleeve.

He sighed and put the cup on the desk. “It would appear so.”

His voice, when he spoke, was scratchy and congested, and felt much the same. Like his vocal chords were frayed. Like trying to play Demyx’s sitar with a cello bow.

Even switched his gaze from the screen to Ienzo’s face. “You look terrible.”

“Thank you,” Ienzo said. “Now, if you’re done pointing out the obvious…”

“Fine, fine,” Even said. “I wouldn’t advise drinking coffee, though. Try tea. Herbal or green, with honey and lemon. No milk.”

“Why would I put milk with lemon?”

“Obviously I meant the tea, but if you’re determined to be obtuse, I’ll cease my attempts at kindness.”

“Fine by me.”

Muttering to himself, Even stomped back to his beakers.

Nonetheless, while Ienzo didn’t have the energy to trail all the way back to the kitchen just to boil some leaves in water and add lemon, he did not finish his coffee.

 

* * *

 

Generally speaking, Even was not the sort to waste energy worrying about other people. They were perfectly capable of taking care of themselves—and if they weren’t, then that wasn’t his problem. Besides, most issues were far from life-threatening, and hardly worth _anyone’s_ concern: an injury would eventually heal if taken care of properly; an illness, unless chronic or terminal, would go away, if treated. And if it _were_ chronic or terminal, then it still wasn’t worth worrying about, because if there were nothing to be done, worrying certainly wouldn’t change anything. It could only serve to make misery more miserable, and there was plenty enough misery in the world as it was. In conclusion, _worry_ and _concern_ were rather useless emotions.

Generally speaking, Even was rational to a fault and steadfast on his hyper-logical outlooks.

But the _child_. There was something about him, that orphan Master Ansem had seen fit to take in for reasons unknown. Something that bled doubt into Even’s self-assertions on the nature of concern.

He suspected that if the child were anything like other children, who were typically far too noisy, overemotional, hyperactive, and slow to grasp notions more complicated than “play time” and “don’t talk to strangers,” he might feel differently. Ienzo, conversely, was silent and sullen. There were times, though, when a glimmer of shy curiosity would shine through. When Even talked, Ienzo actively listened, his single visible eye alight and attentive. He was quick to pick up algebraic formulae and complex scientific concepts; skilled with both numbers and words—written words, at least. At such a young age, he could _almost_ write in cursive already, clumsy though the attempt was.

However, while he was far more tolerable than any other child Even had ever had the displeasure to meet, Ienzo was not perfect. For one thing, his silence was insistent and sometimes unnerving—which was, resultantly, frustrating, because Even was _not_ a man easily unnerved.

“You must be patient,” Master Ansem told him, when he complained that, for all Ienzo’s intelligence, the boy never deigned to answer the most simple of questions. “When he is ready, Ienzo will talk to us.”

The perfect child simply didn’t exist, Even supposed. For all his virtues, Ienzo was a bit of a headcase. He didn’t talk, never smiled, shied away from physical contact, and hid behind his hair. He had oversensitive olfactory nerves, to the point where he once practically sprinted from the room when Even used a drop of ammonia in an experiment. Sometimes he would appear to stare into nothing, tuning out of the world completely for minutes at a time—and not even the smell of ammonia could break this trance.

And, of course, there was the wandering.

Master Ansem was a busy man, as both a researcher and the Sage King of Radiant Garden. Braig was unreliable, Dilan had even less patience for children than Even, and while Aeleus was possibly the most child-friendly of them all, he took his duties very seriously and didn’t have the spare time to be keeping an eye on the overly curious, uniquely enigmatic Ienzo. He’d been left under Even’s tutelage for good reason—but Even was busy, too, of course. He had his own research and experiments to be getting on with. _He_ couldn’t be expected to babysit all day every day.

But, it seemed, whenever he turned his back for longer than half a minute, Ienzo disappeared. The first time it happened, not long after he’d moved in, it was Braig who finally found Ienzo wandering around near the outskirts of town. They’d thought it a one-off; a not-unexpected show of silent rebellion. Perhaps a sentimental attempt to return to the home he’d so recently lost.

But then it happened again. And again. And again. At least two or three times a week, and they never found him in the same place twice in a row.

Whenever asked why he’d wandered off, Ienzo would just stare for a moment, with those piercing eyes that seemed to truly _see_ in a way few others did, before dropping his gaze to the floor with a tiny, apologetic sigh.

After Ienzo had lived with them for over a year, it occurred to Even that this was rather troubling behaviour. It was even more concerning that Ienzo still refused to speak. He was at least more present (for lack of a better word) than he had been those first few months, but clearly he still had a ways to go.

In other words, against his better judgement, Even was... concerned.

 

When Ienzo disappeared, yet again, it fell to Even, _yet again_ , to collect the brat from wherever he’d wandered off to this time.

It was _not_ a good day to be on Even’s bad side. Having worked late, he’d been too tired to pack away properly, and had simply left his notes on the bench next to the chemical reactions he’d been observing. So, of course, when one of them bubbled over in the night, his notes were reduced to little more than noxious white foam by morning. Ienzo had taken one step into the lab and clapped a hand to his nose, so Even had told him to wait outside while he cleaned it up.

The endeavour took some time, as cleaning corrosive liquids always did. While Even was busy trying not to poison or burn himself, Ienzo _apparently_ became bored and decided to seek stimulation outside of the castle walls.

Even couldn’t say he particularly blamed the boy for wanting to get out once in a while, but would it kill him to at least stay within the grounds? Because it was certainly killing Even to have to trek up and down these stairs practically every day! He was more than ready to give the boy a thorough dressing-down, when he found him, though he knew it would hardly yield any satisfaction. Ienzo would react as he always did, with sullen, averted eyes, and that pathetic little sigh.

As small mercies would have it, however, Even didn’t have to look far. Ienzo was in the square, which was rather well-populated at this hour of the morning, cornered by a pair of boys Even had the misfortune of recognising. Such painfully contrasting hair colours they had. _These_ were the scoundrels who tried to sneak into the castle on two separate occasions last year. Even hadn’t bothered to learn their names, but he never forgot a face. Especially of those who irked him.

“Well, _now_ it all makes sense,” said the one with disgustingly red hair when he saw Even approaching at a clip. He turned to Ienzo. “What did they _do_ to you in that castle? Remove your voice box so you can’t call for help?”

Ienzo lifted his gaze from the cobbles to fix the boy with a grave look. Perhaps it was Even’s imagination, but he appeared pale, his eyes darker by comparison; a centralised tension holding his shoulders at a sharper angle than was usual.

“Ienzo, come,” said Even. “You needn’t concern yourself with pests.”

“I was just trying to ask him some questions!” the redhead protested. “He seemed… lonely.”

“Leave it, Lea,” said the blue-haired one. “I told you he was none of our business.”

“Yes, perhaps you ought to listen to your friend,” Even said, injecting his words with all the causticity of the chemicals he’d spent the last half-hour cleaning up. “ _Ienzo_.”

Ienzo glanced from redhead to bluehead before trudging to Even’s side.

They were part of the way back up the stairs when Even felt a tug at his sleeve.

He stopped. “Yes?”

Timidly, Ienzo took Even’s hand. “Thank you,” he said.

Even might have thought he imagined it if he hadn’t seen Ienzo’s lips move.

He sighed. “You wouldn’t get yourself into such stressful situations if you did as you were told.”

Ienzo just shrugged. His hand was small and cold and delicate, and Even was almost afraid to hold it too tightly.

 

It had slipped Even’s mind that children were more susceptible to viruses and bacteria than adults. Because, somehow, in all the time he’d lived with them so far, Ienzo had miraculously managed to avoid catching any illnesses.

Or—had he? It wasn’t like he would have spoken up about it, but surely Even would have noticed if the boy had contracted even a minor cold. The sniffling, the coughing— _ugh_. The signs were all too obvious and all too repulsive.

But it was neither of those things that gave Ienzo away when he finally shuffled into the kitchen for breakfast one morning, a good half-hour late, which put a considerable dent into Even’s rigid schedule.

“You certainly took your time this morning,” he snarked, before noticing the pallor of the boy’s skin, the patches of colour high on his cheeks, and the thoroughly miserable look on his face. This lattermost detail was accentuated by a flash of indignance when Ienzo briefly glanced up, giving a short huff like a scolded cat.

He trudged over to the table and sat down in front of his cold porridge, giving it a mournful look. They both knew he wasn’t going to eat it like that.

Rolling his eyes, Even snatched the bowl and shoved it in the microwave for… hm, given the serving size and the wattage of the microwave… forty seconds? That ought to be enough to revitalise it. Or, as it turned out, to dehydrate it. It was simply what you got for being late to breakfast.

Ienzo picked up his spoon, but did little more than push beige clumps of oat from one side of the bowl to the other.

Even could feel his patience wearing thin. It was difficult enough to get the boy to eat on a regular day, but on _this_ day they were already behind schedule.

“Are you unwell?” he demanded.

Ienzo stared into the bowl.

What Even almost followed with was: “If there’s a problem, then speak up, for pity’s sake!” but he stopped himself. Later, he would remember doing so and wonder why he had, but for now he paused a second longer to mull over his word choice.

“You won’t get in trouble for being ill,” he finally said. _Because that would be positively stupid_ , he didn’t add. “But I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s wrong.”

After another empty moment, Ienzo looked up. To Even’s abject mortification, his visible eye was filled with tears, lips pressed tightly together.

Even hesitated, then sighed, crossing the room to press the back of his hand to Ienzo’s forehead. He was definitely very warm. This close to him, Even could see the irregular tremors rippling through Ienzo’s tiny frame.

“Does it hurt?” Even asked, taking his hand away.

Ienzo nodded, tears clinging to the brink of his eyelids. He lifted trembling fingers to his throat, then to his forehead. He rubbed his eyes with his sleeve before the tears could fall.

Sore throat. Headache. Fever. Probably a cold, but with those symptoms, there was always a risk…

“I’m assuming you can get back to bed by yourself?”

Ienzo blinked up at him, then nodded.

Eye contact. Responsiveness. Yes, probably nothing too worrisome.

While Ienzo plodded back up to his room, Even sought out the medical kit. There was a thermometer in there somewhere, and a bottle of liquid ibuprofen. Strawberry flavour. Which certainly didn’t smell a thing like strawberry. It was more like what Even imagined strawberry juice spilled on a rug and left until it had started to grow mould might smell like: sickly sweet and entirely repugnant.

Tablets were so much kinder on the taste buds, by virtue of going nowhere near themq. Far too much hassle to get the right dosage for a child, though.

When he got to Ienzo’s room, the boy had buried himself in a mountain of blankets on his bed. Naught but a few tendrils of slate-blue hair were visible on the pillow.

“That isn’t going to help,” Even reprimanded, placing the glass of water he’d brought on the bedside table and ripping away the topmost blanket. “You’ll overheat in no time.”

Children. No common sense whatsoever—even in the intelligent ones. Disappointing.

Once the blankets were down to a sensible number and Ienzo had begrudgingly removed his socks and the thick jumper he had pulled on under the illusion that he was cold, Even took his temperature. Another indignity for Ienzo—practically _child abuse_ , you would have thought, from the look on his face as Even placed the thermometer under his tongue.

38.7. Quite high, but not life-threatening. Still, Even would probably recruit Aeleus to help keep an eye on the situation, and he was _definitely_ going to inform Master Ansem.

“This will help with the pain, but it will likely taste foul,” Even warned as he measured out a spoonful of ibuprofen. He wasn’t sure what Ienzo weighed, exactly—not much, by the look of him, so he gave him a small dose. Perhaps it was on the lower side, but better safe than dead of kidney failure before the age of twenty-five.

Ienzo tentatively sniffed the air, then offered him the most dour of looks. He obediently opened his mouth to swallow the medicine, ruminated on the taste for a second, then gave Even a pretty severe side-eye.

“I warned you,” Even said. “Here.” He handed Ienzo the glass of water. “Drink as much as you can.”

That turned out to be less than half of the glass, but it _was_ a rather large glass, to be fair. After that, Even drew the curtains and instructed Ienzo to sleep if he could; read if he couldn’t.

He was at the door, leaving, when he heard it:

“Thank you.”

It was little more than a pained croak.

_Well_ , Even thought, _at least he has manners._

“Get some rest,” he murmured, and shut the door behind him.

 

* * *

 

Progress was painfully slow. And painful. Just painful. Literally painful. Ienzo’s head was killing him, his throat hadn’t gotten any better, and now his eyes were starting to ache. There was a sort of pressure at the sides of his head that was making it difficult to form a single coherent thought, let alone process the lines of code glowing on the screen before him.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been sitting there staring at the same unfinished command line, staring at the blinking cursor that seemed to ask him, over and over, _what next, Ienzo? What next?_

Well, he didn’t _know_ what next! He hardly knew how long he’d been sitting here, staring at the—wait, we’ve done this already. Good lord, getting out of bed today had been a mistake, but forgive him for at least _trying_ to soldier onwards and make something of this day.

He had a feeling he was just making things worse.

The sound of the lab door opening startled him out of his reverie. It was just Even returning. Ienzo hadn’t noticed that he’d ever left.

“Still haven’t given up, I see,” Even commented.

Ienzo just hummed in reply, and turned back to the screen. This was a hopeless endeavour. Hell, maybe it had been a hopeless endeavour from the beginning. Was he really capable of programming an entire operating system? Did he even _need_ to, for the sake of anything beyond his own ego? He was becoming just like—

A stab of pain in his head cut off all thought. The lines of text blurred into a vortex of pixels in front of his eyes. It was like he was viewing it underwater. His whole head felt like it was underwater, with none of the coolness. The air around his head, in fact, felt all too dry and all too hot. The ache in his throat was unbearable.

“Ienzo?”

He thought he might have tried to stand up, but he wasn’t sure why he would do that. In any case, when the fog receded a little he found himself on the floor. Even was crouched over him with a pitying expression.

“For all your intellect, it’s incredibly disappointing that you never learned to take care of yourself properly,” he said.

Ienzo just groaned, but it came out as more of a pained squeak. The floor was cold. It was pleasant, pressed against the side of his superheated face.

“I can’t say I recommend sleeping on the floor,” said Even.

“Don’t care,” said Ienzo.

“Oh, I think you will. Come on.”

He was tugging on Ienzo’s arm. Ienzo obliged and sat up, though he immediately regretted doing so. His orientational axes were so off-kilter that a ninety-degree shift felt like a double three-sixty. He let out a shuddering breath against the ripple of nausea. The shudder didn’t stop. Though the coolness of the floor had been a boon less than a moment ago, now he was shivering as though he’d just come inside out of a snowstorm.

“Come, now, you can do better than that,” Even scoffed, continuing to pull Ienzo’s arm.

If he’d had the strength, Ienzo would have pushed him off, but alas, he had no choice but to let Even haul him up and sit him back down in the chair. Then he produced something from his coat pocket. “Here.”

Ienzo stared. It was a thermometer.

“This is humiliating,” he croaked, taking it from Even’s hand because he was perfectly capable of shoving a thermometer under his _own_ tongue, thank you very much.

“Oh, please,” said Even. “It’s nothing new.”

If Ienzo didn’t currently have a thermometer in his mouth, he would have made some snarky comment about… something. He was preoccupied with his own discomfort. The metal tip was cold under his tongue, the silicone vaguely bitter from trace remnants of sterilising isopropyl.

The thermometer beeped and Even snatched it in his handkerchief before Ienzo could react, sucking in a breath through his teeth when he saw the result.

39.1 was the number on the display, when Even deigned to show him.

Ienzo groan-squeaked again.

“I hope you know you likely made things worse than they needed to be,” Even apparently couldn’t help but to comment. “Coffee? Really?”

“Did I ask for your opinion?” Ienzo snapped, though he doubted the mordacity came across as potently as he intended. “I think I’ll be going back to bed.”

He stood.

He sat down again.

“…In a moment.”

Even rolled his eyes. “You always were insufferably stubborn, but I think I preferred when you didn’t backtalk me at every opportunity.”

“You only have yourself to blame,” Ienzo backtalked.

“Yes,” Even said thoughtfully. “I suppose I do.”

Silence fell, and perhaps it was just because Ienzo felt so awful already, but it was less than comfortable. Any mention of the past, these days, was akin to shoving one’s toothbrush too far into the back of one’s mouth. It provoked an unwanted disgorgement of unpleasant memories and unresolved issues.

“Why?” Ienzo found himself asking.

“Why what?”

“Why did you rejoin them?”

Even’s gaze dropped. Surely he’d experienced the same awkwardness of a rocky past remembered, but he hadn’t expected Ienzo to mention it aloud. Truthfully, Ienzo hadn’t expected it himself, but he was in pain, unable to think clearly, and perhaps a little delirious.

“It was the easiest way to regain access to my research,” Even answered simply.

“That’s not good enough and you know it,” Ienzo shot back. “If I was able to get through the Organization firewall to extract Roxas’ journals while I was reconstructing his data, then with your old access codes we could have _easily_ gotten into your research.” He coughed weakly into his sleeve.

Even sighed. “You were only a child, all those years ago,” he said. “You were smart, but you couldn’t possibly have seen what was coming. The rest of us were adults—and I, especially… I foresaw where our experiments might lead. I did not know exactly what Xehanort was planning, but…” He paused, avoiding Ienzo’s eyes. “I suspected that he would want to get Master Ansem out of the way.”

Ienzo stared. “And you…”

“And I did nothing. I wanted to see the outcome.”

“Oh,” Ienzo said softly. He swallowed. It hurt. He coughed. It hurt. He was so tired.

“Being here didn’t feel right, until… until I had atoned,” Even continued. “And, if it gave me the opportunity to help others in their own quests for redemption, it seemed only fitting that I rejoin the Organization’s ranks, in name if nothing else.”

“I see.” Ienzo stared at the floor. “I’m sorry for asking. I was just… curious. It had been bothering me.”

“If you have questions, you should speak up sooner,” Even said. “It’s all in the past, anyway. It’s hardly of consequence now.”

“Right,” Ienzo agreed.

Maybe if he weren’t feeling so terrible, he would have had more to say on the matter. But right now he wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and sleep for a week.

Carefully, he stood. “I can’t say I blame you for wanting to escape all the stairs in this place,” he said.

Even chuckled, grabbing Ienzo’s shoulder to steady him as he swayed. He was still so much _taller_ than Ienzo. When Ienzo was a child, he’d looked forward to the day he could look Even in the eye without craning his neck.

That day would never come. But there were worse things that could have happened.

 

Despite the fatigue, getting comfortable was practically impossible with a thirty-nine degree fever. Ienzo drifted in and out of awareness, too cold one moment; too hot the next.

Once or twice he woke to find that his headache had faded, only for it to return with a vengeance the next time he surfaced from the sticky bog of fevered sleep. Always, it was accompanied by a full-body, lethargic, aching restlessness.

Aeleus came in a couple of times, bringing him food and water and making sure he didn’t choke on ibuprofen tablets.

At one point, he woke at the touch of a bony hand on his forehead, replaced the next moment by cool, wet washcloth. He opened his eyes to full dark in the room, the sun apparently having set since the last time he’d been conscious.

He heard the door creak; felt the hesitation in the doorway.

“Thank you,” he whispered into the darkness.

“Go back to sleep,” Even murmured, shutting the door behind him.

**Author's Note:**

> Full disclosure, I don't get sick often and the last time I was feverishly sick was near the end of 2017 so uhhhh my memory's a bit hazy about how terrible it is. It always starts with a sore throat and a headache, though. Also, for some stupid reason, being sick makes me more determined to get shit done than when I'm healthy. The power of spite, I guess. I figured that kinda thing fits pretty well with Ienzo's character, so there we go, haha.
> 
> Something I realised about these addenda and extra scenes is that I have the freedom to SHIFT PERSPECTIVES and get into someone else's head for a bit. Even's head was a tricky one to get into. He's not exactly nurturing, but the character intros in the BBS novel refer to "his beloved Ienzo" so he evidently has the capacity to care, probably more than he likes to let on, and generally I have a weak spot for those sorts of characters. And _god_ I always have so much fun with the snark. 
> 
> Anywho, I hope you liked it! You can find me on [tumblr](https://voxanonymi.tumblr.com/) for sporadic updates about me procrastinating my thesis by writing fic. I don't _currently_ have any other fic wips on the go, but... it's really only a matter of time lol.


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